


Act Together

by irisbleufic



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Arguing, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bickering, Drinking, Ensemble Cast, First Impressions, First Meetings, First Time, Idiots in Love, Jaeger Academy Era, Jaeger Pilots, Jewish Character, LGBTQ Jewish Character(s), M/M, Miscommunication, Pen Pals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 08:12:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2302709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You know I'm only a liar when it matters, right?"</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Act Together

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU only in the sense that I've tweaked one detail. Instead of Hermann going through the Jaeger Academy in 2015 and Newt going through in 2016, I've delayed Hermann's (and the Kaidanovskys') entry until 2016. I wanted to test a situation where a) Newt and Hermann meet for the first time in training and have to (hopefully) get their initial spat out of the way a lot faster, and b) a core group of characters we see in the film bond a bit earlier in the canon timeline (Hermann and the Kaidanovskys went through the JA together, and Newt and Tendo went through the JA together; in other words, I wanted to pull all of these characters into training alignment for the sake of narrative experimentation). If you've seen [**the-oxford-english-fangeek**](http://the-oxford-english-fangeek.tumblr.com/) poking me about something we were calling "the Anchorage AU" for a while, this is it; additionally, [**cypress-tree**](http://cypress-tree.tumblr.com/) and I decided a couple of months back that we'd both write something and post at the same time (thanks are also due to her for the beta). The timeline of this story spans early June through late November of 2016, with an additional scene set in February of 2017.

The letter arrives on June first, which, in Hermann's estimation, is cutting it bloody _close_.

Cambridge is already too warm, too stiflingly humid for Hermann to do anything but grit his teeth and keep on his blazer till he's made the twenty-minute walk from the CMS in Wilberforce Road to his residence not far from Trinity. Theo's departure is well behind him— _Three years and one month gone_ , he reminds himself—but the flat still feels empty. He'd grown accustomed to sharing his life with the living, but, of late, he's had to make do with various and sundry ghosts.  He sets the letter on his kitchenette table, smoothing it flat.

Hermann removes his blazer, drapes it across the back of the chair that used to be Theo's, and defiantly sits down. He uses unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves as an excuse to delay, but it's for naught.  Newton had applied _months_ before, hoping for Section A admission, but January through May had passed without mention of Jaeger Academy acceptance in any of Newton's correspondence. His emails had continued to originate from his MIT address, and his letters had continued to bear Cambridge, Massachusetts postmarks. The ironic parallelism of their respective locations is not lost on Hermann.  Three years of this voice onscreen, on paper—

Unlike Hermann's mother, Newton at least _responds_. And he does, in fact, seem to be alive.

Hermann's mobile isn't in either of his trouser pockets, so his next delay tactic is rifling through the contents of his briefcase before turning to the inner pocket of his blazer. It's there, the screen flooded with a number of strangely endearing inanities in the form of text messages:

_Dude, are you out of your departmental meeting yet? I'm too bored to even do science._

_What loser calls the aforementioned meetings when it's eighty degrees out? Criminal._

_You told me you weren't teaching any summer courses because of you-know-what. By the way, our agreement had better still hold, right? First one of us to get his letter has to call the other?_

_Can't believe it took fucking sea monsters from another dimension to get us writing to each other, much less PPDC approbation as cause for voice contact. I've waited THREE YEARS, Hermann._

Hermann deletes them one after another, and then, bypassing his contacts list altogether, taps in Newton's number from memory. He's practiced this a thousand times, the only difference being that, this time, he hits the green circle with phone icon at the bottom of his screen and _waits_.

"Is this your sister playing some kind of prank on me?" says a disbelieving voice on the other end of the line. Hermann's only ever heard Newton in YouTube clips pulled from press features and MIT propaganda. "From what you've said, Karla's the only Gottlieb with a sense of humor, _so_ —"

"You wouldn't be addressing _me_ if you genuinely thought it was her," Hermann says, finding his tongue far more cooperative than reticent in spite of the nervousness coursing through him. "As it happens," he adds, clearing his throat somewhat awkwardly, "I've been waiting three years, too."

Newton is silent for a few seconds, as if processing this, but it suddenly occurs to Hermann that he may be equally as terrified. He whistles, and then says, "You guys really did go native, didn't you?"

"As native as you've gone over there, from the sound of it," Hermann replies. "How, _ah_ , are you?"

"You got my texts," Newton says, and Hermann can hear the smile in his voice; a dozen recalled, recorded images, all color and vibrant motion, populate Hermann's mind. "I'm doing okay. You?"

"Regarding our agreement, push has come to shove," Hermann says, cutting to the chase. "I'm in. Your silence on this matter has been no small source of distress to me these past few months, so would you at least _consider_ poking those idiots in Anchorage to see what on earth has become of your application? It must have been mislaid. I'd have applied at the same time, you know I would have, but—" _but my hip, but the pain, but the constant recent medical appointments, but_ everything "—that was quite impossible. I know we had an agreement, I—"

"Me too," Newton interjects, and his relief cuts effortlessly through the knot in Hermann's chest. "I, um, don't hate me for this, but I kind of . . . yeah, I applied in like November last year, but when I you told me you had to put it off because of all that health bullshit, I thought . . . I contacted Admissions in Anchorage and told them to put a hold on my paperwork till Section B considerations were underway. I figured you'd be submitting by then. I wanted to make sure—"

"How long have you been sitting on your letter?" Hermann snaps, relief giving way to annoyance.

"Jesus, dude! Calm down," Newton pleads, and the edge of brash, grating kick-back that Hermann's been fearing for some time now _explodes_. "Two weeks, okay? No, not even that long. A week and a half _tops_. I just—look, I got anxious! I couldn't bring myself to pick up the phone. I tried, Hermann, but I couldn't. You're not the only one with medical crap going on; I was a wreck that night and thought I was going to stop breathing or something and ended up calling 911—"

"You were hospitalized and didn't mention it?" Hermann demands. "For God's sake, why _not_?"

"Because it only happens once in a while, and I didn't want to scare you?" Newton ventures.

Hermann sorts through the most likely scenarios and settles on the one that makes sense. "Your letter arrived, source of agitation number one, and then the thought of having to contact me, source of agitation number two, triggered an episode? Newton, we'll be in the same geographical location a month from today. On the same premises, taking the same orders. Communication is _crucial_."

"Whatever," says Newton, peevishly. "I have panic attacks; you suffer from chronic pain. Can we get past the stuff we can't control to the part of the conversation where we discuss _finally meeting_? We're joining the PPDC, dude. This is huge. _Lassen Sie uns das alte Land stolz_?"

"Your father must maintain high standards of pronunciation even so far removed," Hermann allows, vaguely impressed that Newton can switch from grating American to posh Berliner in seconds.

"I know it's a loaded question, but what does _your_ dad make of this?" Newton asks hesitantly.

"My father doesn't approve," Hermann says, wishing abruptly he'd decided to carry out this conversation in the corner of some quiet pub instead. "He thinks I'm wasting my time."

"Man, you sound like you need a drink," says Newton, and the reversal from grating to sympathetic sends Hermann's already put-upon heart into another tailspin. "Our first weekend in training, assuming we get something like shore leave on Saturdays and Sundays, I'll buy you one."

Hermann catches himself smiling before he can consider what a bad sign it is. "I'd like that."

"No offense to the senior Doctor Gottlieb or anything, but dude is a _jackass_ ," says Newton, emphatically. "I'm only saying that because, even though I'll never get you to articulate it, I know you agree with me. Like, okay, even if the Wall does keep them out, they're just going to start adapting to circumstance. What happens the first time one turns up with functioning _wings_?"

"That's highly improbable," Hermann says, even though he'll be running models till dawn just to see if his infuriating colleague is right. "Seven so far, and none have exhibited capacity for flight."

"Scissure had features resembling wings even if it turned out they weren't functional, which, by the way, they _weren't._ I've been elbows-deep in enough in just enough of that bad boy to know we're looking at creatures starting to evolve in the right direction. They _will_ take to the sky."

"How lovely to know your summer research trips have been so productive," Hermann sighs.

"You're such a bitch," Newton tells him, but what's behind his words isn't exactly malice. "If you wanna stay up all night slapping equations all over this, fine, be my guest. I've got work to do."

"We've got _packing_ to do," Hermann sighs. "Remaining obligations from which to withdraw."

"Hey, so this is a roommates type scenario," Newton says unexpectedly. "Military bunks, shit like that. Is it all randomly assigned, or is this kind of like a university scenario where you can write down a preference for who you live with in the event you know somebody else going in? I'm not above writing back to them to request you—I mean, as long as you're cool with doing the same?"

Hermann's first thought is that he'd like that more than anything, but his second thought is that it might be a truly terrible idea in light of these moments of friction they keep just _barely_ heading off at the pass. "We might take the familiarity-with-each-other's-disabilities angle, I suppose."

"Awesome, I'm on it," Newton says. "I'll draft an email and let you look at it before I send."

"I'll modify it so that it's jointly written and signed," Hermann replies. "Easier than an article."

"We've done _that_ already, so, hey," Newton says, "this should be easy. And, um—Hermann?"

 _It's early where you are, darling,_ Hermann thinks, imagining what he might've said to Theo had they been separated by such a distance. _Go back to sleep_. He shouldn't be thinking like this, should never have let himself _begin_ to think like this, but the damage is already done. "Yes?" he asks.

"We'll rock this thing," says Newton, audibly _grinning_ this time, and it's infectious. "So relax."

"Only if you endeavor to do the same," Hermann teases him, hanging up before it's too late.

 

*

 

Traveling from Boston to Anchorage? Is literally the _worst_ , but what gets Newton through it is the sobering thought that Hermann's journey has an extra seven hours tacked on. He's proud of himself for reaching his layover in Minneapolis without having gotten airsick, although the fact that he won't have time to catch up with a couple of MIT friends while he's in the area keeps him cranky.

 _Are you still in transit?_ he texts to Hermann, hunching down in his uncomfortable lounge seat.

 _Just landed in New York half an hour ago, actually,_ comes the reply as Newton's boarding his second and final flight. _I imagine you're nearly there, aren't you? Count yourself fortunate._

 _I guess you won't get in until tomorrow morning_ , he texts back. _Shit, jet-lag. That sucks._

 _Did you ever receive a response re: our ill-advised petition to become flatmates for the next six months?_ Hermann replies once Newton's flight has been in the air for an hour and he's pathetically nodding off. _I was never contacted, which leads me to suspect they keep assignments confidential._

 _Nothing stopped you from getting the names of our cohort_ , Newton texts back, grinning, now fully awake, _so they must REALLY want to keep the roomie stuff a secret if you couldn't hack it._

 _Don't think I didn't try_ , Hermann replies; it's the last Newton hears for the remainder of the flight.

On arrival in Anchorage International, he makes his way to where the official PPDC ride to the official PPDC ferry picks up new arrivals every hour, on the hour. It's him and one other dude, and said dude is so confident and quirky and _handsome_ that Newton flubs his response to turns-out-his-name-is-Choi's compliment ("Sweet ink on your right arm there, brother—is that Kaiceph?")

Newton finds his mail-slot right next to Hermann's, and in both are welcome packets that, judging by the reactions of the other new admits swarming around him (Jesus fuck, is that _really_ the much-hyped Russian prison-guard couple from Vladivostok chattering away behind him?), contain rooming assignments. He shuffles off to one side and digs through the packet till he finds a document that looks promising, scanning the dry, placidly cheerful form-letter text for something resembling a name—

"Are you Newton Geiszler?" inquires a precise, restrained voice suddenly to Newton's right.

"Uh, yeah," Newton says, glancing up, and it's a bespectacled young man of Asian descent whose English has a decidedly British-trained edge. He's holding out his hand, so Newton takes it.

"Genji Shizuka," says the young man, vigorously shaking Newton's hand. "We're bunkmates."

"Oh!" Newton says, quickly forcing his widest smile to cover his disappointment. "Awesome!"

As soon as Newton manages to disentangle himself from Genji's self-introduction and myriad questions as to the comfort of Newton's journey, he doesn't hesitate to pull Hermann's welcome packet from its slot and go rifling through. The woman he recognizes as Sasha Kaidanovsky gives him a disapproving look, although her husband, Aleksis, is wearing what might be classed as a smug expression as he diverts his gaze.

Hermann's been assigned to a single-occupancy room. He grudgingly has to admit that makes sense.

Newton hasn't _quite_ managed to shove Hermann's welcome packet back where he found it when someone taps him on the shoulder. He whirls around, breathless, faced with all stern six feet and change of Marshall Pentecost. There's no mistaking him (or that glare, _jeez_ ) for anybody else.

"Taking a keen interest in our fellow trainees, are we, Doctor Geiszler?" he asks almost lightly.

"Sir," says Newton quickly, clearing his throat. "It's just that I—just that _we_ —um, requested—"

"I'm aware of what you requested," says Pentecost, and Newton almost swears there's amusement behind the stern façade. "But I trust you'll both understand the reasons you've been denied."

"Sure, cool," Newton says, but underneath it all he's pretty irritated that the brass have already singled him out as an agitator. "It would've smacked of favoritism or leniency or, I don't know, whatever military-speak is for letting besties crash together when no-one else gets any choice."

Pentecost's lips quirk. "You might be as bright as they say," he says, departing. "Carry on."

Newton doesn't have much time to dump his crap in his quarters before the refectory opens for dinner, and he's kind of glad Genji's not around while he's at it (fifteen minutes of peace and quiet feels fantastic after an arduous airborne commute). The refectory is all bustle and chatter and a shocking number of people throwing their arms around each other whether they know each other or not. The energetic show of camaraderie abruptly makes him miss attending protests.

"Hey, you! Supergeek! Over here," calls a familiar voice, and Newton turns so fast he almost loses half the contents of his tray (not that the tarka dhal looks terribly impressive anyway, although it smells good). He spots Choi seated at the end of the nearest table with a tiny rogues' gallery who, by the look of them, are going to comprise the heart of LOCCENT-Wannabe City. Genji, he recognizes, but the pale, freckled redhead who sounds Canadian is new to him, as is the striking, dark-skinned person with the buzz-cut beside them. The redhead introduces herself as Miranda.

"I'm Whisper," says the one beside her, shaking Newton's hand, "and you know _these_ losers."

"I'd say this is junior high all over again, but I wasn't there for very long," Newton says, and sits down next to Choi. "Do you guys know each other? You seem cozy. Not that that's, uh, bad."

Miranda sets a finger over her lips and says, "Shizuka here snagged the J-Tech hopefuls' names and started a fake listserv devoted to old-school D&D, because who was ever going to look for covert activities on an actual mailing list? Not too many people used it in the month or so leading up to now, but we did. Can you believe it's July already?" she asks. "I can't believe it's fucking July."

"Randy here hasn't been blessed with social graces," says Whisper. "Do you know anybody?"

"Only one guy," Newton says, deciding that the dhal is actually spectacular after the food to which he'd been subjected on the plane. "But he won't arrive till tomorrow morning with the stragglers."

"Long haul?" Genji asks, pushing what's left of his rice into pile. "Where's he coming from?"

"Cambridge, UK," Newton sighs, "and I've come from Cambridge, MA, so we're covered."

"There are only two academic superstars in this class," says Choi, "so that must be Gottlieb."

"You know Hermann Gottlieb?" exclaims Miranda." _Jaeger_ code, goddamn. What's he like?"

"He's, well," replies Newt, and the weight of four sets of eyes on him is intolerable. "He's cool."

"Just _cool_?" asks Whisper, dubiously. "Did you meet at a conference or what? Do you write?"

"Doogie's gone all red in the face, look at him," says Tendo, smirking. "Pen-pal boy crush?"

"Tendo, shut the fuck up," says Genji, sharply, and everyone stares at him, Newton included.

"As in _Nin_ tendo?" Newton teases, elbowing Choi. "Man, your parents must've been nerds."

"Tendo as in _Tendo_ , thank you very much," he replies, laughing. "Picked the name myself."

"At least _your_ birth-name didn't suck," Whisper says, nose wrinkled, and leaves it at that.

"Newton's not terrible, I guess," Newton replies, "but you call me Newt. Everyone does."

That night, Newton doesn't sleep much. He tosses and turns, internal clock thrown off, and Genji's light snore doesn't help. He pitches in and out of uneasy dreams too indistinct to be nightmares, groaning loudly when the 5 AM alarm-bell sounds. He rubs his eyes as Genji stumbles out of the lower bunk, muttering in Japanese, and turns on the lights. Newton blinks at the ceiling.

 _Hermann arrives today_ , he reminds himself. _Get your freaking act together, Geiszler. Stat._

"Do you want the shower first?" Genji asks, sounding impressively civil for such an ungodly hour.

"Nope," Newton tells him, flipping his pillow on top of his head. "All yours. Be my guest."

Genji leaves the room a full half an hour before Newton does. By the time Newton reaches the refectory, most of the good stuff is gone; there are some crispy bacon-shards left, at least, and some lukewarm scrambled eggs, so he makes do with those and some orange juice and tries to isolate Tendo's voice as he wanders between tables. He accidentally clips somebody's shoulder; backpedaling, he catches them by the upper arm.

"Sorry," Newton mutters. "I'm not a morning person. Like, at _all_. I hope that didn't spill—"

Hermann Gottlieb turns his head and peers up at Newton with the old pissed-off professor special. Newton only knows this expression and at least a dozen others he's seen on Hermann's face in online press photos because, yup, he's a motherfucking creeper. Newton lets go of him.

"No harm done," Hermann sighs, taking another sip of his coffee. "Won't you sit down?"

Newton all but trips in his haste to get around the table and plonk himself down in the empty seat across from Hermann. "Dude," he says, elated, "you must've arrived in the middle of the night!"

"An hour ago, give or take," Hermann says, too composed for somebody who's had no sleep.

"Sorry to distract you from your Wall Street Journal, but seriously, it's great to see you," Newton forges on, never mind the fact that his eggs are getting colder. "Have you run into our crop of proto-J-Techs? Choi, Shizuka, Marder, and Boateng are fine, but have you listened to the crap—"

"It's not the techs I'm worried about," says Hermann, wryly, folding his paper. "It never is."

"I haven't talked to any of the pilot hopefuls, but I've seen Team Russia, and they are _hot_ ," says Newton, emphatically, glancing over his shoulder to where they're seated two tables away.

Hermann stiffens somewhat, pausing mid-fold. "Don't you know better than to watch your mouth? This isn't one of your unfortunate, yet whimsical letters; people can _hear_ you. Doctor Geiszler?"

Newton's brain freezes then and there, because that— _ _that__ —is just a little bit beyond the pale.

"Man, would you _relax_? The whole fucking mess hall is yammering away. I mean, honestly, look at that, you cringed again; is a single F-bomb all it takes to get you flustered? For real. You never told me off for writing it down. You also, like, never minded calling me by my actual name. I can't stand that  _Doctor Geiszler_ shit, not when I'm talking to my friends. Hermann, this isn't—"

"You will address me formally in company," Hermann snaps, and then checks himself. "Please."

"Nuh-uh," Newton says, prodding Hermann's mug with his fork. "No way. I don't care if you got a foot in the door to start working on coding a couple of years back just because daddy dearest—"

"And I don't care how many _worthless_ degrees you've so far successfully swindled your institution into printing for you!" Hermann shouts, and a portion of the crowd around them falls nearly silent.

"Cold, dude," Newton tells him, squashing the hope to which he'd been clinging for so long, " _cold_ ," and gets up to continue his search for Tendo & Co. Those assholes, at least, have a sense of humor.

 

*

 

They don't speak—or even _see_ each other, except in passing glimpses in the broad, low-ceilinged corridors—for more than a week. Orientation lasts only three days; after that, Hermann soothes the bruised half of his heart by diving headlong into what modest components of Officer Training Pentecost has seen fit to offer him. However, coding must go on (and the early stages of Breach-location modeling, too), so he's given a cavernous, half-empty storage room in the guts of the building with several battered dry-erase boards that must be more than twenty years old.

He would have preferred blackboards and chalk, but one must make do. There's a war on.

Six days into his occupation of the space, Sasha and Aleksis Kaidanovsky wander in and accomplish the impossible: restore Hermann's faith in the Ranger class by gleefully informing him his welcome packet had been violated. While what he feels toward Newton Geiszler at this stage is not undiluted hatred, it's certainly intense dislike. Mail-tampering constitutes another black mark.

Seven days into his solitude, the Marshall arrives with none other than the guilty party in tow.

Hermann caps his marker, straightens, and salutes before asking, "What's the meaning of this?"

"What's the meaning of this, _sir_ ," Pentecost corrects, his mustache twitching. "Doctor Geiszler has had the chance to show me some more of his research, and it's most impressive indeed. He's been granted half of this space for purposes of setting up a laboratory of sorts, or as near as we can manage." He glances from Hermann to Newton and back again. "He'll help you shift the boards."

"See?" says Newton, thumbs hooked in his standard-issue trouser pockets; he's got his badge dangling from one belt-loop, and Hermann has no clue why he's getting away with it. "We get to room together after all, just not in the way we expected. Pretty sweet, huh?" He offers his hand.

Hermann stares at it, disbelieving, but the weight of Pentecost's stare gets the better of him, so he takes hold of Newton's thumb and wags it carefully up and down. Newton starts to laugh.

"We shall not be making friends," cautions Hermann, as soon as the Marshall is gone.

"Funny, but I thought we were already friends," Newton says. "There's a paper trail."

"We are _colleagues_ ," Hermann replies, attempting to maintain a modicum of civility.

"Then I hope we're at least the kind of colleagues who can agree that these dorky-ass sweaters have got to go," Newton says, squirming out of his jumper to reveal an extremely faded _Jurassic Park_ tee.

"Your fashion sense is as gauche as your vocabulary," Hermann tells him, getting back to work.

"Says the guy who was dressed like he raided the locker room at Bletchley Park," quips Newton, snickering, and starts to haul the dry-erase board next to the one Hermann's writing on a bit closer to the wall. "Cadet chic is kind of a step up on you, no offense. Just look at that throat!"

With that, they're _at_ each other's throats till it's time to break for some much-needed lunch.

Sasha finds Hermann alone at his habitual unoccupied table-end and settles in the seat across from him. Aleksis isn't far behind, sliding both his tray and Sasha's smoothly into place. Hermann sighs.

"Some little bird has told me a story," Sasha informs Hermann, tapping his tray. "Is this tale true?"

"That depends how it goes," Hermann says, resuming his sandwich. "The Academy's full of them."

"Birds or stories?" Aleksis asks, dodging the mock-punch his wife aims at his cheek. " _Hah_."

 _"_ The bird is sitting over there," says Sasha, pointing helpfully. "With the boy you love to hate."

"Choi ought to mind his own business," Hermann replies, "even if I don't particularly mind _him_."

"He has grown fond of your mail thief," says Sasha, warily. "No good will come of that. Fight."

"Fight for what?" Hermann asks, even though he's sure he knows what she means. "And why?"

"You know what," she laughs. "Know _why_. Even though he has fallen in with wrong crowd."

"Cool kids and unpopular table," Aleksis mutters under his breath. "These things do not change."

The next few weeks drag them all blearily into August. Outside the Dungeon, which is what everyone has taken to calling his only bastion of peace and quiet (which is only that when Newton isn't there), he splits his time between serving as J-Tech support and as a sort of _ad hoc_ supervisor on Drift Sync Testing and Pons Training shifts. Newton largely uses these stretches of time to claim their glorified storage-closet as his own, although he sometimes crops up to fiddle with malfunctioning equipment whilst chattering aimlessly with Choi. Hermann frowns over the code he's troubleshooting for the course instructor, wishing fiercely for a pair of ear plugs.

The first time Hermann finds Newton asleep in his chair and precariously close to tipping face-first into the . . . the _thing_ cut up on the table in front of him, Hermann prods Newton in the calf with the butt of his cane until he sputters awake. That wins him a skew-spectacled squawk.

"You'll burn yourself one of these days," Hermann informs him. "Don't come crying to me."

Newton blinks, and Hermann is impressed he has the presence of mind not to rub his eyes.

"Nah," he says, breaking into a slow grin. "Not with you taking care of my sorry rear-end."

"I'm not _taking care_ ," Hermann snaps, grabbing a marker. "I'm looking after Academy assets."

" _Assets_ ," Newton mutters under his breath. "Right," he adds, yawning widely. "Dinnertime?"

"Er, no," says Hermann, quickly, squeaking out a few more digits. "I'm not hungry. You go on."

"What about your friends?" Newton asks, tugging off his gloves as he rises. "They're waiting."

"As are yours," Hermann retorts. "All three suspects, no doubt. You've had drinks with them."

"Aw, man," Newton sighs, failing to take Hermann's invitation to a row. "You still wanna cash in on that? There are only two PPDC-approved bars on this island, and I've already been banned from one of them."

"Perhaps not tonight," says Hermann, finding himself breathless mid-equation. "But _perhaps_."

"Cool," Newton says, but it isn't quite nonchalant enough for Hermann's liking. "See you later?"

"If you're coming back here instead of getting trollied with that lot, then yes, I suppose you shall."

"Dude, get some sleep," Newton tells him on his way out. "You look like hell. I'm just saying."

Hermann laughs in spite of himself, the sound of it echoing short and sharp. "Even my throat?"

Newton pauses in the doorway and looks back, framed there like homecoming, and it _hurts_.

"You know I'm only a liar when it matters, right?" he says, altogether too candid, and departs.

Hermann works for a few more hours. When Newton doesn't turn up again, he turns out the lights and returns to his bunk. There's a plastic folder at the bottom of one of his suitcases that he likes to pretend doesn't exist, but the charade is wearing thin.

It's gone with him everywhere for months.

Undressing and climbing into bed with the folder slipped hastily under his pillow is far, _far_ too easily done (no need to extract the documents; he knows them by heart). Picturing Newton's bare right arm, color-riddled from wrist to shoulder, is also much easier than it ought to be, as is picturing the incongruity of his left arm still blank from elbow to the turn of his palm—

Hermann grazes his own down the underside of his cock again, cursing as he comes.

 

*

 

It _would_ be September fucking fifteenth when Newton arrives one morning to chaos in the lab.

 _Yup, it's the Ides of Something_ , Newton thinks, watching Hermann gesticulate wildly at Pentecost over the series of large, ungainly multi-hued dicks drawn all over his precious calculations. His amusement is short-lived when he turns to find at least several hundred dollars' worth of glass lab-ware shattered and a two week experiment shot to shit. He tells himself not to panic.

"I suggest you _find_ the horrid creatures responsible for this and _punish_ them," Hermann seethes.

"Much easier said than done, Doctor Gottlieb," says the Marshall, "but I'll investigate thoroughly."

"Those _fucking_ —" Newton is so angry he can't complete the sentence, and it's only once Pentecost has left them that Hermann actually takes him by the arm and drags him over to the nearest chair.

"Cunts?" Hermann suggests almost cheerfully, but there's something perturbed in the way he's studying Newton's expression. "You aren't breathing properly. Is something wrong?"

"Kinda," Newton admits, but the tightness in his chest is fading already. "Headed it off."

"I know how much work you'd put into preparing those samples," Hermann sighs. "This . . . _graffiti_ can be erased and overwritten; I can reconstruct what I've lost. More of . . . of that stuff," says Hermann, indicating the bluish-purplish sludge at intervals on the floor, "is hard to procure."

Newton glances up at Hermann, disbelieving, but part of him knows this rift between them is closing faster than it has any right to do and it scares him _ _shitless__. "Uh," he says. "Thanks."

"Judging by your reaction," Hermann says, "something tells me you may suspect who did this."

"God, I hope I'm wrong," Newton sighs. "It's just, I was with them last night, so if . . . "

"If they were a distraction, you mean," says Hermann, carefully, "so someone else could . . . "

"Don't ask me, dude," Newton replies, rubbing his neck. "Where were __you__ when this happened?"

"In my room," says Hermann, too tersely for comfort. "Reading. I leave _sometimes_ , you know."

"What if it was everyone's favorite Soviet meatheads?" Newton asks, getting up. "What then?"

"Sasha's disdain for the rest of this crop is as fierce as yours or mine, and you should know that."

 _I don't know anything anymore_ , thinks Newton, casting about for gloves. "I've gotta clean this."

Hermann holds out his free hand while Newton pulls on a pair. "For God's sake. I'll help you."

"Not the floor you won't," replies Newton, oddly touched, and hands Hermann a set of spares.

For the next two weeks, they keep pretty much to themselves: strength in numbers and foul concoctions, nerds united in solidarity against the fucking jocks. Tendo seems miffed as hell that Newton's not speaking to him, but the distinctly hurt glances turn to sly determination; it's at that point Newton starts to wonder what the clever bastard's really up to. He keeps talking to Genji because, well, Genji's his roommate and also a good guy and he doesn't have much choice. Whisper isn't offended, altough they're being tight-lipped about something, and they always wheel away when Tendo gives them the what-for. Miranda smiles and waves a lot, playing the ditz.

There's a reason these mofos are fucking mad, bad, and dangerous to know, and they _prove_ it.

The Cabal shows up at the Dungeon on the evening of September twenty-eighth with two six-packs of Labatt Blue, and all four of them are wearing some variant on Tendo's shit-eating grin.

Hermann lets the J-Techs in like a recalcitrant bellhop, glaring out from under his latest unfortunate haircut.

"I know who did it," Tendo says, thunking the beer on Newton's desk. "Now let's make 'em pay."

"How are we going to do that, exactly?" Newton asks. "It's not like I can just punch them in the teeth; they'd break my arm before I could manage it. Hermann's great with the cane, though."

"Bingo," says Whisper, wolfishly, and beckons Hermann over. "Just the man we came to see."

Codefuckery is _so_ not needed to make Sasha and Aleksis look especially good in the sim-scores department, but the digital kaiju they're up against the next afternoon look extra menacing. Newton's proud of the visual manifestation of said codefuckery, anyhow, having offered his design-eye on realistically tricking the monsters out. Higgins and Dufours, the pair up next, about piss themselves.

Also, their scores look a lot worse than Newton swears he just saw them perform.

And if Unpopular Table and the Cool Kids merge seating that night at dinner, _well_ _._ Boo hoo.

Dinner becomes a regular thing. September becomes October, and nobody fucks with the Dungeon (or, indeed, with _them_ ).

They don't stop fighting, but why would they? Just because Pentecost has to come around every once in a while to break shit up doesn't mean they're not making headway. Hermann's got the Mark-2 code out of beta and into sim practice, and Newton's nailed the how-those-fuckers-breathe problem to the wall. To the Wall, even, given the fuss Lars is making these days on the news; Hermann can't stand the frequency, so Newton gets rid of their contraband TV.

It's October twenty-ninth, a month and a day after their joint victory with Choi & Company, when Pentecost lets his adorable daughter declare this particular Saturday impromptu Halloween for anyone who's fond of being in costume. Sasha and Alexis come to dinner in their prison-guard uniforms, which is actually as sobering as it is hilarious. Tendo goes full Elvis. Newton and Hermann haven't done much more than dress in civvies, claiming they've gone as themselves.

Newton sits there laughing with Hermann long after the others have gone, even the Russians. They stay so long that the refectory staff have to shoo them, at which point Newton swallows his pride as they amble through the deserted hall and says, "Hey, it's Friday night. How about that drink?"

Hermann wipes his mouth and tosses his napkin on top of his tray. "Well, why not," he says.

The Canada Goose is both inappropriately and unfortunately named, but Newton's determined not to risk setting foot in the Lodge until there's been enough staff turn-around that they forget about how he'd shouted at Tendo for thirty minutes straight because he'd been convinced the asshole was lying about Genji's crush on him. Turns out that hadn't been the case. __Oops__ _._

"The ambiance leaves something to be desired," says Hermann, dryly, hanging his parka on the hook next to the booth they've claimed; he grabs Newton's out of his hands, hanging it in kind.

"What do you want?" Newton asks, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. "No no, sit down."

"Whatever local brew's on tap will suffice," Hermann says. "None of your IPA nonsense, thanks."

"More for me," Newton mutters under his breath, making his way up to the bar. Halfway there, he glances back at Hermann, and his stomach flips. They're in normal clothes. This _might_ be a date.

Hermann drinks so much, and so  _fast_ , that Newton can scarcely keep up. Hermann insists on buying every other round, which isn't how Newton had planned on this going, but topics steer clear of their major points of academic disagreement re: just about everything. Hermann doesn't just like porter; he likes several types of nice single malt whiskey and, in a shocking turn of events, vodka.

"Aberlour A'bunadh," repeats Newton, struggling to control his tongue. "Don't know that one."

"You wouldn't," says Herman, morosely. "I don't believe any of you bloody Colonials import it."

Newton narrowly prevents himself from spraying Hermann with a mouthful of beer. "I can't believe you actually talk like that. You actually. Talk? Like _that_? What else is hiding in your lexicon?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Hermann attempts to sneer, but his heart isn't in it, which means the attempt is less menacing than it is adorable. Either that or Newton's so drunk he's beyond hope.

"I'm cutting you off," Newton tells Hermann, snatching Hermann's shot and downing the rest.

"Mixing doesn't go well for you, if several weekends ago is any indication," Hermann replies.

"So glad you pulled me out of there before I barfed, dude," Newton tells him, his head swimming with the abrupt onslaught of forty-proof hitting his bloodstream. "A-plus for quick thinking."

"You drunk-texted me," says Hermann, flatly. "I was busy, and you sent some utter bollocks—"

"Details," slurs Newton, waving his hand, and then yawns. "This is pathetic, but I'm wiped."

"Then we ought to be getting back," sighs Hermann, wistfully. "Bed checks or no, this isn't . . . "

"All right," says Newton, swaying to his feet, and tugs down their coats. "C'mon, Hermann. _Up_."

The reason the Goose and the Lodge are PPDC-approved is, no two ways about it, that they're the only two bars within walking distance of the premises Even Newton knows it wouldn't do to have hit-and run or fender-bender incidents involving the sad-looking fleet of Academy Jeeps.

They stagger past Sasha and Aleksis on their way to Hermann's door, both of whom are on a return trajectory that suggests they've been hitting the bottle with none other than Trainee Choi. Newton grins to think of him by Hermann's habitual form of address, which causes Hermann to turn sharply; the vise-grip he's got on Newton's forearm yanks Newton in closer than he's ever been. Hermann's breath smells like beer, which is weird and illogically cute and somehow  _comforting_ by turns.

"Your flatmate's a bit of a prude, isn't he?" Hermann slurs, his lips mere inches from Newton's.

" _ _Um__ ," Newton says, his mind gone distinctly blank. "Well, he __does_ _ drink, but not as much . . . "

"But he also fears authority," Hermann ventures, "as well he should. Newton? Pay attention."

Newton puts two and two together and finds, as unbelievably hot as being hit on by Hermann Gottlieb really is, that he can't get it up right now to save his life. "I . . . _huh_. Yeah. He won't report me, I guess."

"Good," says Hermann, turning, and slots the key into his door. "Come in before someone sees."

The truth is that kissing Hermann when they're both too uncoordinated to properly appreciate it is disappointing, but there's still that _closeness_ thing going on, and Newton can get behind it. They don't really get undressed unless you count shedding shoes and blazers and pull-overs and trousers. Kissing is difficult to concentrate on, and Hermann seems to agree, so they flop on the mattress in a haphazard tangle and . . . _and_ _._

"Gotta get you some ink," he whispers, smoothing Hermann's hair. "After the War. Yeah?"

Hermann is already asleep, snoring softly into the curve of Newton's neck. He doesn't stir.

Newton sighs and closes his eyes, no longer able to stave off his growing unease.  Exhibit A: he's finally,  _finally_ in Hermann Gottlieb's bed.  Exhibit B: it took Hermann getting fucking _smashed_ to drag him here.  The more he thinks about it, the more convinced he is that this does _not_ bode well for his actual prospects.  This is likely a pity-fuck brought on by Hermann's lowered inhibitions, and Newton would be an _ass_ to take advantage.

This is the saddest situation _ever_.  He'd better make sure it doesn't come back to bite him.

 

*

 

Hermann's alarm goes off. His head feels like somebody's packed it with gauze, light hurts his eyes, and the mere _thought_ of breakfast sends his stomach roiling in sudden nausea. He curls back into the bedclothes, finds the comforting scent of Newton's hair product on his pillow.

How he _knows_ immediately what that scent is serves as the first warning sign. He sits up.

 _Think about this logically_ , he tells himself. _You're still dressed. There are no articles of clothing strewn about the room except for a few of your own, and those are draped across your chair._ He remembers asking Newton to come inside, but he's now not certain why he'd thought that wise.

It's Sunday, November starts in two days' time, and fully _four_ of their six months here are gone.

Hermann staggers out of bed, takes half a painkiller, washes up, and makes his way to the refectory with only ten minutes of serving-time left to spare. Newton is nowhere to be seen, for which he's grateful; much to his surprise, Sasha and Aleksis are amongst the late diners. He joins them.

Hermann can tell before Sasha opens her mouth that she's going to say something ominous.

"He stayed for only an hour?" she asks, sounding curiously disappointed. "Was it that fast?"

"If you'd really like to know, nothing happened," says Hermann, automatically, struggling to disguise the mixed reaction he's experiencing. On the one hand, he'd clearly made a pass at Newton and asked him inside: of all the _monumentally_ stupid things he could _possibly_ have done! On the other, Newton had clearly cared enough to _stay_ with him for a while. Or had fallen asleep with him and subsequently awakened feeling rather more sober and departed before he could regret _—_

"He did not look happy," Aleksis chimes in, softly, "and also his lips were not in best shape."

"Would you please _stop_?" Hermann snaps, digging into his scrambled eggs. "I'm humiliated."

"I'm sorry we played spies," says Sasha, "but you need to, how to put it, get your act together."

"When hell freezes over," Hermann sighs, "and perhaps not even then. I tried, dear girl. I did."

"Then try harder," Aleksis tells him, displaying genuine anger for the first time since they met.

Over the next two weeks, Hermann gives subtle peace-offering attempts his best shot, but Newton barely makes eye contact, much less responds to him in more than strings of single-syllable words. He refrains from talking when Newton's running experiments or performing complex operations involving head-lamps and sharp objects. He even straightens Newton's paperwork after Newton leaves.

Trainee Choi, for all of his charm and utility, has maximized his use of this time in the endeavor of getting on Hermann's bad side. He whisks Newton away from the lab at every opportunity. Genji and Whisper come around with guilty regularity, as if to apologize for their leader's coup.

November twentieth, another Sunday morning, marks three intolerable weeks of a Newton so avoidant as to be absent.

Hermann abandons the dry-erase boards for his desk, where he's accrued a stack of his regular reading publications about as high as the broken portable fan over in the corner. He's had a happy hour or so of reading when he realizes that not only has Newton not turned up, but that there's a familiar, concerned J-Tech peering in.

"Trainee Shizuka," Hermann sighs, lowering his reading glasses. "Won't you join me?"

"Newt didn't come back this morning," says Genji, without preamble. "From Tendo's."

Hermann considers Genji's words. Inasmuch as Choi and Boateng bunk together, Hermann is never certain just how effectively Whisper manages to keep Tendo in line. He'd been aware that Tendo and Miranda were something of an item, but it had been tenuous. This is cause for concern.

"What do you want me to do, fetch him like I did last month when you lot had got him blind drunk just to see what would happen?" Hermann says, dropping his magazine on the desk. "I think not."

"I'm not going to hide this from you anymore," Genji says, pale as death as he draws himself up to his full height of five-foot-four in front of Hermann's desk. "He's never going to return my regard. It's Tendo he's in lust with, but it's you he's in _love_ with—and, realistically, there's lust there, too, __God_ _ the shit I've put up with. Sorry. Doctor Gottlieb, this impropriety is . . . quite necessary."

The young man bows slightly and goes out again, leaving Hermann alone once more. Without a second thought, he removes his reading glasses from around his neck, fetches his cane, and leaves the laboratory as fast as he's able. He knows the way to Tendo's room; it's not far from his own.

Hermann has not hammered on someone's door with his fist since approximately the age of four.

"If you're in there, so help me," he seethes, raising his voice as high as he dares. "We have _work_!"

Mid-pound, the door opens, and Whisper (confused, wearing work-out clothes), slips into the hall.

"It's Sunday," they inform Hermann." _You_ may have work, but the rest of this world doesn't."

Hermann doesn't have time to respond; Whisper sprints off down the corridor at shocking speed. Before Hermann can take up pounding on the door again, it opens a fraction. Tendo peers out.

"I was wondering when you'd come for him," he says, sounding weary. "Your boy's in bad shape."

"Clearly," Hermann mutters, looking Tendo up and down. He's wearing PPDC sweats and a thin, sleeveless undershirt; the scars on his chest and a smattering of text tattoos similar to the one looping across his neck are just visible through the fabric. "Is he still asleep, or can you . . . "

"He hates it when I violate curfew," Newton groans from within, but the rustling suggests he's pulling on various items of clothing and struggling into his boots. "But when he's the one trying to persuade me to violate, man, it's no harm, no foul. I think that's hypocritical. Don't you, Tendo?"

"Yeah, that's about right," Tendo says, folding his arms across his chest as he steps back to let Newton open the door. He pats Newton on the shoulder. Although there's nothing in the gesture that Hermann would deem terribly intimate, it's affectionate. "Don't science too hard, you hear?"

Newton, bleary, his hair sticking up every which way, doesn't even have his glasses on. He squints at Hermann, getting as close as Hermann had once drawn him, and that's when Hermann notices his red-rimmed eyes. "You should've come with me," he said. "I asked you to. There was vodka."

Without thinking, Hermann grabs Newton's arm and hauls him bodily into the corridor. "I don't fancy killing off that many brain cells every weekend God gave," Hermann chides, tugging him along. "Thank you for looking after him," he adds, glancing back at Tendo.

"Just so you know," Tendo shouts after them, "y'all have got _ISSUES_! Big ones! _Damn_!"

Once they're back in the laboratory, Newton finally wrenches himself out of Hermann's grasp and goes over to his side of the room. Uneasy, Hermann stands and watches him pace briefly back and forth before collapsing in his chair, tapping his fingers on the arms. His boots are unlaced, and his jumper isn't pulled down enough to hide the threadbare vintage _Doctor Who_ shirt he's wearing.

 _"_ If you're incapable of making a move on me while you're sober," he snaps, "then just say so!"

"I have never done anything of the kind, not whilst sober or inebriated," Hermann insists, stomping back to his desk, and the lie burns like swallowing poison. "Your recklessness puts us both at risk."

"It's fucking Sunday, dude," Newton points out, getting up again. "I'm going home. To _sleep_."

Alone again, Hermann tries to resume his reading without success. He wonders where home _is_.

 

*

 

 _So_ , Newton thinks on Monday morning (twenty-four hours of avoiding Hermann has worked wonders for his capacity to apply logic to this situation), _the low-down is that_ _you and your pen-pal-turned-lab-partner have fucked shit up beyond repair. Choi is offering you some casual action, which you might possibly have been an idiot to turn down. Maybe you should recant your refusal._

He goes to the refectory and finds Hermann already gone, which is either a disappointment or a relief (and he can't make up his mind as to which). He has some actual class sessions to attend today, classes in which he is an actual _student_ , and there will be no avoiding Hermann in both of those instances. Officer Training is roughly tantamount to managerial training and it is _stultifying_.

"Do you have a minute?" Genji asks, out of breath, and sets his tray down beside Newton's.

"Yeah, sure," Newton sighs, suddenly not so hot on the breakfast and coffee in front of him.

"I did a stupid thing," Genji blurts, tapping the worn tabletop. "I talked to Hermann yesterday."

Newton wants to swear and flip his tray; instead, he closes his eyes. "About me, I'm guessing?"

"What else?" Genji replies, shaking Newton out of lockdown. "He's crazy about you, and I _—_ "

"And I've been an ass to _you_ ," Newton sighs, covering his face. "Ugh. Jesus, Genj, I'm a _jerk_.

"Yeah, but that's the neat thing," Genji says, sounding far too at peace with the situation. "Hermann's a jerk, too. He's so much of a jerk that I'm tempted to say he's _more_ of one than you. You should see the look on your face right now. You can't even stand to hear he might be better at _that_ than you are. Do you have any idea what kind of fucked-up awesome you guys could be? You keep each other out of everybody else's hair most of the time anyway, so why not go get him?"

"To be continued," Newton says, setting a grateful hand on Genji's arm. It's like every piece of wiring in his overworked, overtired brain has lit up like _hearing this shit from somebody else_ is exactly the set of circumstances they've been waiting for. It's a challenge now, a _dare_ , and that's the language he speaks. _It's the hack of the century_ , his old colleagues would say. _Now make us proud_.

"You're welcome," Genji mutters, rubbing his face, and steals Newton's coffee. "Any time."

"No, I mean it," Newton says, hastily getting up with his tray. "I suck at saying _thank you_."

"As long as you mean it," replies Genji, grinning. "So, rock-star among jerks that you are . . . "

Newton bends and kisses Genji on the forehead, because, damn, he's sweet and _deserves_ it.

Class is awful. It's boring and tedious and _Pentecost himself_ is out from Anchorage again to teach another session. He's running the afternoon battery, too, from the sound of things, so it's going to be at least seven or eight hours of squishing down this overwhelming sense of _hope._ He spends the morning session, from his vantage-point near the back, paying more attention to the grumpy wrinkle in Hermann's forehead and the way he's scribbling notes more furiously than usual.

Newton tries to snag Hermann when they're finally turned loose for lunch, but Sasha and Aleksis flank him as soon as he enters the corridor and whisk him away. Tendo shoulders up to Newton in the refectory line, commenting on the sad state of the sweet-potato fries. Newton smiles a little.

"I told Genj what happened Sunday morning," Tendo tells him as they find a relatively quiet place to sit. "Apparently _that_ happened right after he tried talking some sense into Hermann and Hermann had told him he had no _intention_ of fetching you from my dastardly clutches."

"If you get him mad enough, Hermann will often do the opposite of what he claims," Newton says. "It's like using reverse psychology on a three year-old, only the pay-off is more unpredictable."

"Brother, I hope for your sake he's _not_ a giant three year-old," Tendo replies. "That'd suck."

"Are you on the go-get-'im brigade, too?" asks Newton, wrinkling his nose at a soggy fry.

"You bet," Tendo says. "I don't want you dip-shits to be miserable anymore, _comprende_?"

" _Comprendo_ , dude," Newton replies, eating the fry anyway. "I'm gonna own that bad boy."

"Let's stop talking about this," Tendo sighs. "The three year-old image was bad enough."

Tendo doesn't let up, not even when they're stuck in the afternoon session. He passes Newton notes behind Hermann's back that say stupid crap like _GEISZLER + GOTTLIEB 5EVA_ and _Newtmeister <3 Teh Herms_, which might be worth holding onto until some later date when Newton has desperate need of something with which to pitch Hermann into bad-math induced apoplexy.

When the session's dismissed, he has to brush off several people in order to make it out the door after Hermann at just enough of an interval so as not to be noticed. Much to Newton's surprise, Hermann's trajectory doesn't take them to the lab, but to Hermann's room.

"I hate to disappoint you," Hermann says, not even turning to face Newton as he removes his room key from his pocket, "but you shall have to insult the empty air this evening. I'm _knackered_."

"Knackered as in heading to bed, or knackered as in you just can't stand to be around people right now and want some alone-time with a book?" Newton asks, already feeling slightly panicked.

"I wanted to be alone after listening to the Marshall's intense natter for so many hours at a go," Hermann sighs, turning to look at Newton as he opens his door. "But if something's wrong . . . ?"

"You just referred to your hero's teaching style as _intense natter_ , so, yeah, there's a problem," Newton says, trying his best to smile. "Actually, scratch that. I'm being a smart-ass."

"And the world was a better place for your admission," sighs Hermann, with a rueful grin. "It's no harm done if you come in; there's a kettle, there's tea, and I owe you an apology."

"Um," Newton says, and follows without protest, closing the door behind them. "You _what_?"

Hermann sits down in his desk-chair and removes his shoes, frowning at the badly kinked laces before tossing them aside in a fit of carelessness. "Don't pretend not to remember," he sighs. "I made advances which you did _not_ appreciate, and if I'd just been paying attention _—"_

"Am I ever gonna get this through that thick, stuffy, but admittedly _brilliant_ skull of yours?" shouts Newton, despairingly, and throws caution to the wind. "You're only the fucking love of my life!"

Hermann, staring at a fixed point on the floor, doesn't speak for several seconds. It's the longest conversation-lull of Newton's life; to be fair, though, it isn't so much a lull as screeching standstill thanks to the huge fuck-off girder he's dropped right in the path of Hermann's apology.

"We have a meeting with Pentecost this afternoon at four," he says carefully, raising his eyes to meet Newton's gaze. "I had completely forgot about it, and, from the sound of things, so have you."

"It's not that I forgot," Newton says, almost falling over in his haste to unlace his boots, because he recognizes the tone of this segue from that night Hermann had drunkenly asked him inside and he is _so_ not going to mess up this time. "It's that I don't _care_ , Hermann," he says, kicking out of them, and offers Herman his hands, which are by now shaking pretty badly. "I care about you _more_."

Hermann takes hold of Newton's hands without hesitation, and it's _his_ momentum that levers him up and into Newton's arms. Realistically, though, _he's_ the one in _Hermann's_ arms and the kiss is nothing like the drunken muddle-and-snooze they'd both tried so desperately to put behind them.

"We're gonna get in so much trouble," Newton giggles, unable to stop himself. "Oh my _God_."

"In all seriousness, I _haven't_ noticed anything resembling bed checks," says Hermann, dryly. "So I doubt that." Hermann kisses him again, and Newton feels giddy. "For missing the meeting, however, I should think we're at _least_ looking at some sort of stern written reprimand."

"I can live with that," Newton says, tugging Hermann over toward a bed that is, to Newton's astonishment, _not_ neatly made. "I really can. I'm tired of dancing around this and I . . . I just . . . "

Cleverly reversing who's leading whom, Hermann sits down on the edge of the mattress and tugs Newton forward by the hands. He doesn't stop pulling, so Newton finds that he has no choice but to climb into Hermann's lap. He winds his arms around Hermann's neck and tilts his head to kiss Hermann; it's close and awkward and really, _really_ hot. Hermann moans into Newton's mouth and that's it, he's done, he's _hard_.

But Hermann is, too, so that's okay. He fumbles at Hermann's belt.

"Your affections in this instance," Hermann breathes, rucking up Newton's sweater and t-shirt with impatience, "are most _assuredly_ returned. For some, there'll be no easy ending, but for _us_ _—"_

 _"_ I don't want easy, Hermann," Newton says, removing his glasses, dropping them on the floor so they won't come to any harm. He lifts his arms, helps Hermann remove both articles. "I want __you__ _._ "

Getting naked is difficult when you can't stop kissing. It's not that Newton doesn't know this, but he gets the feeling they're both just inexperienced enough—or maybe that for both of them it's been just _long_ enough—that this feels fragile, exciting, and new. Hermann is warm under him once they've finally succeeded in shedding the last of their clothes, _eager_. It takes a lot of discipline not to whimper and beg while he's giving Hermann what he hopes is an impressive hickey, because Hermann's wrapped one hand around both of them. Even without lube, his touch feels _amazing_.

"There," Hermann whispers, kissing the only thing he can reach at this angle, which is Newton's cheek, his jaw, his earlobe, and Newton stops what he's doing to suck in a shaky breath. " _Oh_ ," he breathes, feathering his fingers through the sweat-damp hair at Newton's nape, and it's _too much_.

"Jesus, oh, oh _fuck_ ," Newton gasps against the side of Hermann's neck, shuddering helplessly. Hermann sucks in his breath and works them harder, his breath hitching at the sudden slickness beneath his fingers. "Hermann, yeah, fuck, _Hermann_ , c'mon, what are you _waiting_ —"

"Newton, dear God, be _quiet_ ," Hermann grits out. He stops talking mid-sentence and groans instead while Newton takes over jacking them off so Hermann can just enjoy his orgasm.  Once he's finished, they lie there in sticky silence for a while, holding each other.

Newton's not as much a fan of messes as his line of work might suggest, but they're frequently necessary to getting shit done, and this is definitely one of those times when the mess indicates they've accomplished a _lot_. Hermann kisses him like the world's ending, and, while Newton feels that sentiment may be a bit premature, it will be true in the not-too-distant if they don't haul ass.

"We have a little over a month left in this hell-hole," Newton murmurs. The way Hermann holds him tighter as he speaks is getting him hard again. "I'm not sleeping in my own room tonight unless you have a sound reason to kick me out."

Hermann responds by rolling Newton onto his back and kissing him absolutely _senseless_.

 

*

 

The letter arrives on February first, which in Hermann's estimation is far too bloody _soon_.

Boston is having a rainy winter, which results in perpetual ice and slush that render the fragmented brick walkways of Newton's residential side-street perilous. The sound of raindrops on the casement reminds him of home, of winters far milder and largely devoid of snow.  Cambridge hadn't been pleased with expediting his resignation, and they'd been even _less_ pleased that he hadn't come to resolve the issue in person. Bastien and Dieterich's wife, Anan, had been kind enough to see to it that his belongings had been split up between storage and shipping to the US.

Newton had reasoned that they'd have less than a month till their assignment, so why bother going back? They'd filed for assignment as domestic partners, a fact so lately made true that Hermann wonders if they'll meet with resistance from PPDC bureaucracy. In spite of the missed meeting, they'd garnered the Marshall's support. That much, he supposes, gives him hope.

Hermann is tempted to pull both pillows over his head when Newton clatters into the bedroom with his coat dripping wet, his messenger bag falling off one shoulder, and an envelope in hand.  "You do the honors," he says, tossing it onto Hermann's stomach. "I'm actually afraid to look."

Hermann yawns and sits up, fumbling his reading glasses off the nightstand. Newton drops his coat on the floor, and Hermann can't bring himself to chide Newton when he's clearly vibrating with barely-contained excitement and traces of distress. Newton crawls onto the bed so that he's sprawled on his belly with his boots dripping sodden grit on the carpet. Hermann opens the letter and scans it.

"We're in for some warmer weather," Hermann says, bringing his hand to stroke the back of Newton's head, which is now resting damp and ticklish against his belly. "One fears our options were somewhat limited.  How does Los Angeles sound?"

"Better than Lima," says Newton, and Hermann can hear the smile in his voice. "For _sure_."


End file.
